


Bless This Home and Its Heart So Savage

by FrostbitePanda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But whatever, Children, Dad!jon, Dream of Spring 2020, Established Relationship, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Fluff, Gen, House Targaryen Family Fluff (ASoIaF), Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon has five daughters, Jonerys Week 2020, King Jon Snow, One Shot, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Slice of Life, Targaryen Restoration, Targlings (ASoIaF), a little late but whatever, both published and unpublished, lots of non-toxic masculinity here, post-Ozymandian, reading of Oz not required, spoilers for Ozymandian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda
Summary: “In addition to being Commander Brienne’s prized pupil, your son seems to have caught the eye of my eldest daughter.”His guest couldn’t help a satisfied smile at that, as if everything was working out justperfectly. And, Jon supposed, it certainly was for a secondary lord from Dorne. “Indeed,” Blackmont said, lifting his glass as if in toast. Jon did not return the gesture. “In his many letters to me and the Lady Blackmont, he has frequently heaped praise upon the Princess Rhaella.”Jon inclined his head, smiling. “It may be a biased opinion, but Rhaella is above reproach in most things.”(in which Jon has five daughters and everything is generally wonderful and nothing hurts.)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 40
Kudos: 363





	Bless This Home and Its Heart So Savage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashleyfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyfanfic/gifts).



> this is an idea that i've had for awhile, so i decided to write it for Dream of Spring to get my head in back in the game for Ozymandian (but then i decided to finish Thumbprint). so... it's late, but whatever. 
> 
> i should note, that this is a monument to shameless indulgence. i've always loved the "Max Rockatansky and his five adopted daughters" trope from the Fury Road fandom, so I decided to give my boy Jon Snow the same ~~curse~~ blessing (Max and Jon are my two fave male characters ever, so... deal with it). each daughter is based loosely upon each of the Wives from the movie. 
> 
> there are spoilers, both published and unpublished, for Ozy below. you've been warned if that bothers you! Oz will be finished, but at this point i don't feel like keeping much secret anymore. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> this work is unbetaed, so be gentle.

“Must you go?”

Daenerys stepped closer to him, adjusting his gorget with an affectionate grin, running delicate fingers over the crowned dragon sigil stamped the center. “My brave, courageous king… afraid of a Dornishman.”

Jon huffed an exaggerated breath, cupping her elbows in his palms. Even now, nearly two decades after their crowning, her diminutive form still struck him— knowing her as the warrior queen she was. “I am not _afraid_ … just— I despise these audiences as a rule, and now I must endure it without you and the knowledge that this man wishes to wed his son to our daughter.”

“You will do admirably, my love, as you always have.” She quirked an inquisitive brow at him. “Would you prefer to ride through construction sites for irrigation pipes from dawn till dusk?”

 _Perhaps_ , he thought immediately. “You do love to ride,” he pointed out. It was the reason she had volunteered and he had relented.

She grinned wider, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Don’t be too fearsome, my love… I do think Rhaella is fond of the boy.” 

He heaved a mighty sigh, shook his head in wonderment. “I cannot believe that she is old enough to harbor such feelings.”

“Oh?” his wife questioned. “And how old were we, when we fell in love?”

He smiled at that, drawing her closer for a kiss. “Fair enough.”

“I shall see you a few hours past sundown,” Daenerys told him as she stepped away, squeezing his bicep. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he returned, watching her retreat down the hall to join her retinue awaiting her in the courtyard. 

“Your Grace,” came a page’s voice from behind him, “Lord Blackmont awaits you in the Hand of the King’s solar.” 

Jon pressed a finger and thumb just above his left eye, the one he’d lost in the War of the Dawn, the phantom pain spiking at the rush of anxiety he was feeling. He ran a probing finger over the surface of the eye patch— a new contraption cleverly crafted by one of his equally clever daughters. It was made of pewter, and needed no constricting or uncomfortable strap to secure it in place. 

He sighed and squared his shoulders. “Thank you, lad, lead the way.” 

A too-short journey later, and the page was announcing Jon to his guest, who stood hastily from his seat as if he’d been prodded with a red-hot poker. 

“His Grace Jon Targaryen of House Stark, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Prince of Dragonstone, The White Wolf, Friend of the Freefolk, The Dragon in the Dark, Slayer of the Night, Queenslayer, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

No matter how many times Jon heard the litany of honorifics that he had perhaps earned, it never failed to make him inwardly wince. 

“Your Grace,” Lord Perros Blackmont greeted with a deep bow as the page left the room, his job done. “I have eagerly awaited this day… to stand before a hero of such repute.”

Jon coughed, not sure what else to say to such lofty praise besides a gruff “thank you”. He waved a hand to the long Small Council’s table to their left, laid with a flagon of wine, bread, figs and olives. Not the usual fare, to be sure, but he was hosting a Dornishman and so would ensure he felt as home as possible. 

“Please, my lord, make yourself comfortable,” Jon invited.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the man simpered with another bow, taking up a seat at the end of the table. 

Jon tried very hard not to roll his eyes, or to think of how insufferable this audience would be if Blackmont was to act like this the entire morning. 

“How were the roads, my lord?” he asked as he poured them both a helping of the Dornish red. 

“Favorable, Your Grace, and the weather mild,” Blackmont answered, sniffing his wine before taking an appreciative gulp. “Correct me if I’m wrong… but is this the 314 vintage?”

“The very same,” Jon assured, though, truthfully, he had no inkling as to the vintage. Wine all tasted the same to him. 

“A wonderful year,” the man murmured, taking another sip and stroking his long goatee. 

There was an awkward pause and Jon shifted in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Your son has proven himself to be quite a determined and courageous pupil during his time with us, my lord. We have counted ourselves blessed.” 

“I would expect nothing less from Larron,” Blackmont replied with a little smile. “He is nothing if not a true gentleman of Dorne, and wished most ardently to come to the capital to learn from the heroes he read about as a child.” The man shifted in his seat, picked a stray bit of lint from his rich red robes. “It is the _kingdoms_ that are blessed, Your Grace, what with the generous program you and the queen have instituted.” 

“We believe that education and experience are the most reliable allies to ensuring a brighter future for the realm,” Jon answered. “Besides, Commander Brienne has nothing but praise for him when it comes to his sword craft.” 

The man smiled, a bit thinly. “Yes, Commander Brienne… the first lady knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at his guest, hand stiffening upon the table. “Yes, my lord, and not the last, if you recall.”

“Do not misunderstand me, Your Grace,” Blackmont went on breezily, waving his hand, “Dorne does not hold onto such primal ideals such as the subjugation of women. I simply find it a… diverting detail, that my eldest son should be mentored by a woman in sword craft of all things.”

Jon failed to see much of a difference in these observations. He weighed his response carefully, drawing from his almost two decades’ worth of experience as a monarch to craft his rebuttal: “If Dorne is the bastion of feminist sensibilities as you claim, my lord, you should not be so plagued by vexation at your son being tutored in the art of war by a woman.”

To his credit, Lord Blackmont frowned, looking thoughtful. “I suppose you are right, Your Grace… please, forgive me for my boorishness.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Jon insisted, though a bit untruthfully as he spun his goblet by the stem upon the table, perhaps just a tad fidgety, eager to get on with it. “In addition to being Commander Brienne’s prized pupil, your son seems to have caught the eye of my eldest daughter.”

His guest couldn’t help a satisfied smile at that, as if everything was working out just _perfectly_. And, Jon supposed, it certainly was for a secondary lord from Dorne. “Indeed,” Blackmont said, lifting his glass as if in toast. Jon did not return the gesture. “In his many letters to me and the Lady Blackmont, he has frequently heaped praise upon the Princess Rhaella.” 

Jon inclined his head, smiling. “It may be a biased opinion, but Rhaella is above reproach in most things.” 

Lord Blackmont tipped his glass to him again. “It would seem so, especially in her taste in men.”

Jon gave an appreciative chuff, taking a bracing sip of his wine for good measure, knowing that the most difficult conversation was just to come. “If such a thing were to come to fruit, my lord, I must assure myself and others of my court that you are made fully aware of the laws and reforms the queen and I have put in place in matters of royal lineage and marriage.”

“No edification is necessary, Your Grace. I have already been made well aware,” the man answered with a sniff, brushing a hand over his robes. Jon couldn’t help but observe the strange, macabre sigil embroidered at his right shoulder— a vulture with a screaming babe within its sharp talons. 

“So, I do not need to remind you that though your son may wed my daughter, he will be king no more than the page who lead me here until my daughter deems it so?” 

“The peril of having nothing but daughters, I suppose,” Blackmont quipped with a commiserate grin, as if he had made a grand joke. Said grin failed as he realized what he had done.

“Your Grace—“ he stammered. 

“What grievances do you have with my daughters, my lord?” Jon inquired innocently. 

“None, Your Grace, I do apologize,” Blackmont pleaded, straightening in his chair, hands clasped before him on the table as a supplicant. “I simply… it is most men’s desire to bear a son… I was simply trying to… to…”

Jon remained silent, pinning the man with a glare as he tapped a hand patiently upon the table, wanting nothing more than his guest to justify himself, to dig himself deeper. 

Blackmont huffed. “Your Grace… it was nothing more than an ill-thought joke.”

“Why joke about the children of a king, my lord?” Jon questioned, voice taking on an edge. 

_’The bastard king with five daughters,’_ people sniggered behind their hands in taverns and brothels and the like, as if this somehow made him less a man. The man who was the king, the man who had aided in the slaying of the Night King, the man who had razed the Red Keep to the ground, had melted the Iron Throne to nothing but spills of iron and steel, had hefted the head of an usurper queen above the walls of King’s Landing. 

It was nothing but an annoyance to him, now, but he never passed up the opportunity to make someone squirm for it. 

Blackmont opened and closed his mouth several times, appearing to Jon like a landed trout, much of his debonaire, southern charm dissolved in an instant. “Well— Your Grace… it really was said in jest. I do apologize—“

Jon lifted himself from his chair, scraping loudly in the empty room, and leaned his fists on the table, bringing himself closer to the Dornishman. Blackmont stared, ashen, his eyes darting significantly to Jon’s missing left eye. A badge of honor— a small sacrifice in order to rid the world of the blight of dead who never found rest.

“A wise man once told me that jokes are only humorous because they deliver universal truths,” he told Blackmont calmly. “So, tell me, my lord, what is the truth behind your jest that I should find so humorous?”

The man seemed struck dumb with fear, a figurative foot shoved in his mouth. 

“Do not think me simple, my lord,” Jon went on, leaning away from his guest and taking an easier stance, granting at least a modicum of mercy in the face of the man’s obvious shame and fear. “I have heard such cruel japes before. Having daughters makes me somehow less a man, but if you think it so, why not challenge me directly, as any man should?” 

“Your Grace…” Blackmont began, voice shaky, “no man would be fool enough… your sword craft is legendary… you’re—“

“ _If_ this betrothal is to be made verifiable, my lord,” Jon cut across him, patience now thoroughly tapped as he held up a staying hand, “a few things must be made clear and are, frankly, nonnegotiable. My daughters are not to be made the butt of jokes. And, if your son is to know the honor of wedding my daughter, he will not see one shade of power or wealth until my daughter deems it so after the fifth year of her reign. Any untimely death before that time will result in her next eldest sister who so desires to assume the throne… _not_ your son. That is the law of the land as I and the queen have written it, and you will do well to remember that fact.” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Blackmont breathed, “of course… I had no designs to the contrary.” 

“I would hope not,” Jon warned. “We have our own ways of rooting out treachery… now, if you’ll excuse me, I must consult with my daughter about this matter.” 

He watched as the man swallowed, fear flashing in his eyes. “Please, Your Grace, do not let my loose tongue ruin the hopes of a young couple in love.”

“You underestimate me once again, my lord,” Jon countered hotly. “I will send a page to show you to your rooms.”

Blackmont seemed desperate to say more, but Jon was already halfway to the door, eager beyond all reason to be free of his company and seek out his eldest daughter for a bit of reassurance. 

+++

He found Rhealla where he had assumed she would be— in the library, sat at a table with Lady Missandei, reading over some dusty scroll or another. 

His eldest daughter, their miraculous, hard-won first born, was brilliant. All of his daughters were, in their own right, but it was by some strike of sheer dumb luck that their eldest grew to be the woman she was today— brave, brash and fiery. She may have likened to Jon in looks, but she had much more of her mother in her than of him.

“ _It is the spirit of Lightbringer inside her_ ,” Bran had posited when she had been born. “ _Her mother and father were champions of the Old Gods and the New... and her mother brought forth the force of Lightbringer while growing a child in her womb. She will be a great leader, one day. Greater than even her parents_.”

Jon had many doubts about what most of what Bran had to say most times, but he never doubted that. 

He and Dany had spoke at length as their daughters were growing up, as to what, exactly, royal ascension would be like. Had spoken about how a ruler should _want_ to rule, not just have it foisted upon it because they happened to be born first. 

“ _It would be no better than the treatment of bastards— a child cannot help the circumstances of their birth_ ,” Daenerys had argued and Jon could not help but agree. 

They had determined, then, that the throne would be granted to the child that most desired it, any conflicts being resolved through seniority and demonstration of commitment to such a position— education, commiseration, and requisite sacrifice of the many ‘frivolities’ of a royal rearing in favor of sit-ins in small council meetings and other dreary, dull functions. Rhaella had been the one to take up that calling from a very young age with little complaint and all the passion of a dragon and a wolf. 

Jon smiled, pausing at a distance to observe his daughter a bit longer, her face scrunched in concentration as she struggled over a particularly difficult word, Missandei urging her on gently. She looked so much like her mother when she did that, even if she had inherited his dark hair and large, dark eyes.

“Papa!” she exclaimed as she caught sight of him. She rose from her seat and rushed to him, folding him in a hug.

Jon chuckled, his heart aching as he returned the embrace and she pulled away. “How are your lessons going?” he asked. Rhealla was determined to learn basically every language imaginable, so as to be able to communicate with foreign emissaries without the aid of a translator or scribe.

“Never mind that, how did you meeting go?” Rhaella inquired pointedly. 

Jon was not a man very adept at deceit, and it was doubly so when concerning his daughters.

She sighed deeply, crossing her arms in a knowing sort of way. “You didn’t _scare_ the poor man, did you, Papa?”

“No,” he answered and then sagged under her stare. “I didn’t scare him _much_ ,” he amended and his daughter groaned.

“Your Grace,” Missandei greeted before Rhaella could really let him have it as she stood from her chair with a little curtsy. 

“Lady Missandei.” Jon leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. Over the years, him and his wife's advisor had formed a fast friendship. Between his gratitude for the brilliant young woman standing steadfastly beside his wife through thick and thin, and the additional burden of overseeing the education of their children, Jon owed the woman a debt he suspected he could never repay. 

“Your daughter nears the days where I am no longer needed,” she told him, looking at Rhaella proudly. 

“Nonsense,” Rhaella scoffed, “you will always be needed, Missandei.” 

“You honor me,” Missandei told her with a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll allow you two some privacy.” 

Jon nodded and Missandei shot his daughter a strangely conspiratorial look. He had little doubt that the two women had conversed quite candidly about the issue of the dark and dashing Larron Blackmont and the impending meeting between his father and the king. 

“So,” his daughter began curtly as she took up her chair again, “what happened?”

Jon sighed and took the same seat Missandei had just vacated. “Nothing _happened_ ,” he insisted, “I just… made some things clear.”

Rhaella sighed, nodded. “I thought that this would happen.” 

He shook his head, now a bit cross. “I can’t possibly be _that_ hot tempered. I was simply—“

“No, no… it’s not that,” his daughter cut across him, smiling. “Larron has warned me that his father is perhaps a bit… _skeptical_ of… certain ideas and of certain reforms that you and mother have put in place.” 

“Oh…” Jon said slowly, considering. He looked to his hands, folded over the books laying open on the table. This was a good sign, at least. “Would it be foolish for me to assume that Lord Larron has not followed in his father’s sluggish footsteps?”

Rhaella shook her head, a small, besotted grin lighting up her face that made his heart twist. “No, Papa… quite the opposite. As I think you are well aware,” she added, teasing. 

“Aye, I suppose I am,” he conceded with an answering smile. He and Daenerys had had many dinners with the boy and Rhaella over the past year. He was without much of a fault, admittedly, with the exception of perhaps his near-constant chatter. “I just cannot believe that any man should be worthy of you.” 

Rhaella smiled at him, warm, and reached across the table to grab up his hand. “If you think so highly of me, Papa, then you should trust in my judgement.”

“Of course,” he conceded, “it is still difficult for me.” He squeezed her hand, taking her in for a moment. His daughter, now a woman grown, her dark hair plaited in much the same fashion of her mother’s complicated braids. Her blue gown and black sash embroidered with the crowned dragon of their house... he could all too easily imagine the black mantle of a queen upon her shoulders. He sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair. “If you are certain of this, my love, we will of course move forward… after your twentieth name day, of course.”

His daughter gave him a sardonic look. “Which would be in little over a month,” she pointed out. 

He shrugged, trying not to smile. “I don’t make the rules.”

Rhaella rolled her eyes, again, looking so much like her mother in that instant Jon almost started. “Very funny.” She stood, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and smiled at him sweetly. “Thank you, Papa.” 

He grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I love you, little dragon,” he told her and she smiled ever wider at his much earned affectation for her. As a girl, she had been a terror. 

“I love you, too, Papa.”

+++

Again, he knew exactly where to find his second-eldest child. 

He often sought out Lyanna when his nerves were frayed— she was an undeniably soothing presence. Calm, strong, capable and not one for much talking. Him and Lyanna were very similar, and, though he loved and shared affinity with all his daughters, their bond was perhaps a touch stronger. 

“What I don’t understand,” Lyanna was telling Lord Gendry when he arrived at the armory, “is why the temperature of the water matters so much.” 

“Easy,” Gendry replied, “the colder the water, the harder the shock to the metal… makes for a more brilliant luster, you see… a _sheen_ that you can’t quite get any other way.” 

“Mm…” Lyanna mused, her brow pinched. Jon had to admit, she looked almost eerily like him whenever she did that. “If only there was a way to ice the metal.” 

Gendry laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past you to figure out a way, my lady.” 

“You flatter me,” Lyanna returned with a smile before her eyes caught sight of him. “Papa! What are you doing here?” his daughter greeted as she came to hug him, not caring in the least bit that her hands were stained with soot. “I thought you had that important meeting this morning?” 

“Aye, I did,” he assured, “got cut a bit short.”

Gendry snorted at this and bowed. “Your Grace.” 

“Lord Gendry,” Jon replied with a nod. Yet another person that had served him and his family in ways he would never be able to repay. Him and Daenerys had attempted as such. After the war they had tried to grant him the seat of Storm’s End, to which the man flatly refused, preferring to remain in the city of his birth, doing “what he was born to do” for people “actually worth a damn”. 

In return for his selflessness, Jon had ensured a seat on the Small Council as Master of Sword and Spear (several new positions had been created since their crowning), a respectable abode, and a near army of apprentices… many of whom clambered over each other at the chance to be tutored by “the Bull of Blackwater Bay” as he had become to be known— the near-legend who could work Valyrian steel and armed the king and queen and their armies with the best weaponry in all the world, by Jon’s estimation. Besides, with Jon’s sister, Arya, being the near-vagabond she was (as Master of Diplomacy, she travelled extensively as an emissary), Gendry liked being in King’s Landing, where he could be near her whenever she was home.

Despite all the work the man already did for them, he had also taken on Lyanna as a special student. Lyanna was not so interested in weapons-making as she was in simply crafting and blacksmithing in general. Although his daughter was no older than sixteen, she had already crafted the eyepatch Jon now donned, had forged a newer, safer design for a stirrup (the outside portion was fastened via leather thong, so that it would give way if one’s foot was caught, preventing the horse from dragging the rider), and had even formed the prototype for the pipes that were now being fitted and laid into the farmlands beyond the city walls. 

Jon could not be more proud. 

“What are you teaching my daughter today, my lord?” He inquired, looking over the little ingot that glowed in the fire. 

“Just explaining proper tempering, Your Grace,” Gendry answered. “I believe the Lady Lyanna must be teasing me, because it is much too simple a topic for her.”

“My daughter? _Tease_?” Jon asked in mock indignation as Lyanna rolled her eyes. 

“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I steal Lyanna away for some lunch?” Jon asked as he held up a little linen satchel he had knicked from the kitchens. “She always skips breakfast… figured it would be high time for some food.”

“Of course,” Gendry assented and Lyanna brightened. She turned and curtsied to her teacher who bowed and she and Jon left the swelter of the forge. 

They settled on a stone wall in the small courtyard, still able to hear the echo of Gendry’s hammer from where they sat under the shade of a large lemon tree. Daenerys had planted it nearly twenty years ago, commemorating the spot Jon had first landed Rhaegal during the siege of King’s Landing. 

“I hope this meeting you had with Lord Blackmont was not so brief because it went… poorly,” his daughter began without more ado as she bit into a pear, juice dripping down her chin. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her ratty tunic, sat cross-legged in her stained doeskin breeches on the wall in front of him. Lyanna was also dark haired like him, and possessed her mother’s entrancing eyes, but possessed little of her mother’s vanity or conscientiousness about her appearance. Daenerys often despaired at the state of their daughter’s attire and her hair that was often pulled up into a sloppy, fly-away bun. 

“I wouldn’t say it went poorly…” Jon mused, chewing on a hank of cold venison, “just perhaps there was nothing left to be said.”

Lyanna sighed, shoulders falling. “Lord Larron really is a good man, Papa.” 

“I know,” he said, squinting down at the bundle of grapes between them in thought. “But you girls are… vulnerable. The daughters of a new monarchy. There are so many evil men out there, Lyanna, who see nothing but benefit… power and prestige, when they look upon a princess.” He laughed, bitter, shook his head. “Not to say that such designs are limited to the relations of men and women… men do terrible things to other men for the sake of greed.”

“I think Rhaella of all of us understands that,” his daughter assured gently, “don’t you think?”

“As usual, you are right,” Jon conceded with a fond grin. 

“And besides…” Lyanna began through a thick bite of brown bread. That was yet another thorn in her mother’s side— her abhorrent table manners. “…Larron or his contemptible father would be bloody mad to try anything. Between you and mother you make even the most foolhardy men piss themselves. Never mind the dragons.”

Jon snorted, both at her joke and at the thought of Daenerys’ scandalized gasp at her vulgarity. “Such a man would be a fool of enormous stature.” He shook his head, emitting a slow breath. “And Larron’s father is not contemptible… perhaps a bit slow to change, but not nefarious I don’t think.”

“That’s good,” Lyanna said, wiping her hands on her breeches. “But… I’d like to discuss an issue of my own, Papa.”

His hand stalled on its way to pop a grape into his mouth, a slight chill running through him at these words. Lyanna was ever candid with him, often telling him things she refused to discuss with her mother (sometimes, to her detriment… such as when her first moon blood had arrived. Jon had tried his best, but ultimately Daenerys had to be called in to console the distraught girl). However, she rarely had “issues”. For a girl of her age, Lyanna was remarkably secure and sure of herself, so the note of shyness and perhaps even… _trepidation_ that hid in her voice now was reason to give Jon pause. 

“What is it?”

“Well… I’ve been thinking… I think my studies here have perhaps… stalled.” She bit her lip, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, the food between them now thoroughly forgotten. “I’ve been talking to Sam—“

Jon cursed. _I’ll bloody kill him. Never knows when to keep his bloody mouth shut._

“Please don’t be mad, Papa,” Lyanna pleaded, sensing his soured mood and leaning forward to squeeze his hand that had clenched in his lap. “But… Oldtown is the best place for me to pursue my interests fully.”

“The maesters are a bunch of old, dithering, hateful fools,” Jon argued, shaking his head. “I would sooner die than see you put in a maester’s chain and robes.”

She smiled at him, and it was oddly disarming. He felt his shoulders loosening. “I thought you’d say that.” 

“It’s the truth,” he spat. “We’ve ordered reforms that they ignore year after year, finding every possible excuse to not admit a female candidate. They purposefully slow research on anything we deem imperative— like civil engineering or—“

“Papa, _I know_ ,” she interjected, a bit of panic creeping into her voice, “but you know as well as I that there is no way in the Seven Hells they would refuse a princess… and besides it not my goal to acquire a chain and spend my years shuffling about in some far off castle, lancing some fat lord’s boils for him.” 

Jon looked at his daughter curiously at that, trying not to wince at the image of her lancing boils. “So, what _would_ your goal be? There is not much use other than the accursed chains of the Citadel in Old Town.”

“I aim to learn everything I can about engineering and other pertinent subjects from the maesters— a still venerated and respected group of men that could legitimize my authority on the subject— and then, establish my own school of engineering right under their stuffy noses.” She sat up a bit straighter, some fear still in her face, but everything about her posture telling him that she meant every word. 

And he had not one doubt that she would do it. 

“You amaze me, little wolf,” he told her softly after a moment, shaking his head and laughing in some wonderment. How had he been gifted with such daughters? “As much as I would hate to see you go and as much as I would miss you every day...“

Lyanna looked at him, overjoyed, simply beaming with excitement. She was usually such a stoic child— this only emphasized how ardently she felt about this mission. “So you approve?” she asked him breathlessly.

He held up a hand. “On a _tentative_ basis… yes, of course.”

“Oh! Papa!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck with a squeal. 

He laughed, pulling her away from him. “But we must discuss this with your mother, agreed?” She nodded, though some of her joy broke, knowing that Daenerys would be a harder egg to crack. “And you cannot leave until your seventeenth name day—“

“ _Papa_!” she protested. 

“Your seventeenth name day,” he repeated. “That way you can see your sister wed and can finish your primary studies with Commander Brienne, Lady Missandei and your other tutors.” 

“And go to the Anniversary games,” she added flatly, pointedly. One of the few examples of pomp and fanfare that he and Daenerys allowed— every five years a week-long festival of games and artistry to celebrate their coronation was held. This year was to be the celebration of twenty years and was sure to be the grandest affair yet. 

Jon quirked his lips and nodded, knowing full well how much his daughter hated it. 

She huffed. “Fine.”

“And ser Clegane must go with you,” he pressed.

She slumped. “ _Papa_ …” she whined, “he is so dour! And besides, he’s _your_ sworn sword!”

“Exactly,” he affirmed with a nod, “which is why he is the only man I could ever trust with such a mission.” 

She pouted a bit at this, defeated.

“I’m only trying to help you,” he argued, stroking her cheek, “whenever you go to your mother with this, she will agree with little complaint if you already have these details worked out, my little wolf.”

She sighed, smiling at him, so fond he could hardly tolerate it. “You’re right,” she conceded. “Thank you, Papa.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you, too.”

+++

It had been a trying day, and, as was his custom, he liked to blow off steam either in the training yard, or on the back of a dragon. 

Seeing as though the best fighters in the capital had left to accompany the queen on her errand, Jon rode for the cliffs north of the city, the Hound trailing close behind, as usual. 

The air was still and humid, but cooling with the late afternoon sun sinking into the sea, rusting the tops of the trees and throwing long, blue shadows over the earth. A fine day for a flight. 

Jon slowed his horse at the top of the slope and slid from his saddle, trusting his silent companion to grab hold of his mount’s reigns as he trekked to the edge of the cliff. 

Since his and Dany’s crowning, the dragons had largely kept away from the city, too large and cantankerous to mind the walls and the people with any sort of grace or care. Besides, they preferred the coast, nesting on the high cliffs over the ocean, hunting dolphin and perhaps scaring the piss out of a fisherman or three. 

Jon closed his eyes, taking in a lungful of the fresh sea air and calling out to Rhaegal in what had become something of a reflex, a second nature— something as simple and fundamental as breathing. 

A cry went up from his left and he watched as Rhaegal emerged from a line of trees down the hill, spreading his great, leathery wings and lifting himself into the air. His mossy scales glinted gold and red in the deepening sunlight as he arced, turned, and landed with a rumble before him.

For as long as he had been bonded with the creature before him, as many times as he had stepped onto his wing and swung himself over the dragon’s shoulders to see the world from a singular vantage, Jon would never tire of this sensation, never grow accustomed to this mighty thing that he had been granted. 

He felt his chest ache as he reached out a hand to his long-time friend. Rhaegal purred, bending his great head into his palm, hot as an ember. 

“Hello, my friend,” he greeted and Rhaegal responded with a little a sigh, a trill of question, as if he were eager to leap from the cliff and take him and his rider away across the sea. 

Jon was just about to clamber up his side to allow the dragon to do just that when…

“Papa!” came a very familiar voice to his right. He froze and looked over his shoulder, watching as his fourteen year old daughter kicked her horse into a searing gallop up the hill that made his heart stop. Her companion, Rhakaro, their Master of Horses, struggled to keep up behind her.

“Visenya!” he exclaimed as Rhaegal bristled, rumbling low in his chest at the riders galloping up the hill. Jon placed a soothing hand on his neck. “Slow down, gods’ sakes!” 

“Sorry, Papa,” she panted as she pulled her horse to a stop, pale cheeks red with the wind.

“I thought you were supposed to be with Lord Tyrion,” Jon pointed out, mostly directing this observation at Rhakaro, who, to his credit looked chagrined.

“I did not know she was supposed to be in lessons, Snow King,” the man acknowledged gruffly. “She simply showed up to the stables and wanted a riding lesson, and so I obliged.” 

“You are worse than me, Rhakaro,” Jon quipped, looking from her daughter, smiling sheepishly, back to the man in question, who shrugged, helpless. “She has you wrapped around her finger as well.”

“I just wanted to get out for a bit, Papa,” Visenya complained, pouting.

“How did you trick Lord Tyrion into letting you out of his sight this time?” he questioned, stepping forward to help her from her saddle. 

“I didn’t _trick_ him,” she clarified, a bit haughty, brushing dust from her riding leathers. “I just told him I needed to go back to my room to retrieve something that I had forgotten… which is the truth!”

Jon sighed, utterly and totally resigned to not getting a moment’s peace this day. “Visenya… we’ve talked about this, love. You do have to go to lessons every once in awhile.” 

She huffed, scowling. Out of all his daughters, Visenya looked the most Targaryen— with white-gold hair and deep, violet eyes. More violet than even Daenerys’. 

She was also, perhaps, the most Targaryen in temperament. “Lessons aren’t going to teach me how to fight,” she countered and pointed to Rhaegal, standing patiently beside them this whole while, “ _or_ how to ride a dragon.”

 _Seven Hells, this child_. The only interests she had were sword craft, dragon riding…. and perhaps finding new and inventive ways to scare the life out of her parents with her daredevil antics upon horseback. “We’ve spoken of this, Visenya,” Jon went on patiently, “you’re not old enough, and even if we teach you—“

“‘There are no dragons for me or my sisters to bond with and ride’,” she finished for him, voice acidic. She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him. “It’s not fair,” she sulked, scuffing her boot into the dirt, her defiant demeanor fading. “Rhealla gets to be queen someday… Lyanna has her buildings and schematics… what do I have if I can’t be a dragon rider, Papa?” 

His annoyance broke apart, her rare showing of vulnerability properly disarming him. He cut his eyes to Rhakaro. “Leave us, my lord,” he told he man, who nodded and turned his horse away, trotting back down the hill. 

Jon stepped closer to her and placed his gloved hands upon her tense shoulders. “Now, what is this, my love?” he asked softly.

Visenya refused to look at him, her jaw tight and her arms crossed over her chest. “It’s exactly what I said it is,” she finally grumped. 

“You do not have to be a dragon rider to be a Targaryen,” he pointed out, sensing some of her insecurity. “Or to be a worthy princess.”

She huffed, shoulders falling a bit. “Maybe,” she muttered, “but it certainly helps.”

He looked down at his daughter— misplaced, misunderstood Visenya. Their wild, fiercely independent girl who hardly let anyone in to see any sort of weakness. She looked back at him, something in her eyes sparking and angry, defiant in the face of the insurmountable odds that she would never be granted with what was considered to be her ancient birthright— the power of a dragon under her, the whole world hers for the taking.

He sighed, feeling a bit helpless, wishing with everything he had in him that he could assure her in a more final, sincere way. 

No one knew how dragons bred, how their eggs were laid, how they hatched, which ones were male and with were female— if such dichotomies even _existed_ between creatures of such other-worldly making. Some scholars insisted that they bred spontaneously, without the aid of a partner. 

Whatever the theories and postulations, the only facts anyone had was that the last two living dragons in a century had been brought into the world by magic. Magic that could never again be replicated or called upon. That, and that dragons bonded with one rider and one rider only, for the rest of their days. 

He did the only thing he could think of, in that moment, the sad tilt of her mouth crushing him. 

“Don’t tell your mother,” he told her as he nudged her toward Rhaegal. They had both agreed that their daughters would not mount one of their dragons until at least their fifteenth nameday. That restriction seemed silly and arbitrary, now. 

Visenya looked at him, shocked as she stepped closer to the dragon. “Papa!” she exclaimed breathlessly, “Really?”

He nodded. “Aye, now get up there before I change my mind.” 

She nodded, so excited she was trembling as she clambered up Rhaegal’s shoulder with Jon’s help. Rhaella and Lyanna had not been nearly as eager to see the world from the back of a dragon— more scared to death— and had only sought out their company only seldom. His youngest three were much more taken with them, much to Daenerys’ maternal dismay.

He climbed up right behind her, gripping her tightly around the waist. He could feel Rhaegal swelling with anticipation under him, the addition of Visenya sparking something warm and protective within the beast. _No showing off_ , Jon warned him.

“Grab hold of the spikes, there,” he instructed. Visenya leaned forward, wrapping her thankfully gloves hands over the bristles before her.

He knew that this was a poor replacement… flying as a passenger on a dragon was a paltry thing compared to the bone-deep thrill of being _apart_ of one, wheeling through the sky as unencumbered as a falcon. But it was the closest approximation he could think of, the only thing he knew that could soothe his daughter’s troubles. 

Visenya was practically vibrating with joy in front of him, and they hadn’t even left the ground. 

“Hold on,” he murmured to her, tightening his arms around her. 

Rhaegal was ready, his wings spread, his head swaying to and fro over the edge of the cliff, the wind rising to meet him. 

“Can I say it, Papa?” Visenya whispered, fervent and shaky with excitement. 

He nodded against her hair and she took a deep breath. 

“ _Soves_!” she cried into the wind and Rhaegal leapt forth with a mighty roar that had his blood singing. 

+++

He was certain, now, Visenya would be the death of him.

He’d always had his theories, but almost as soon as they had leveled out over the ocean, Visenya had begged him to make Rhaegal dive, to wheel and turn and roll through the sky. 

He had, of course, obliged, like the helpless idiot he was. 

He could not deny that he had enjoyed it… _immensely_. He whooped and shouted right along with her. But even his fearless, ferocious daughter was a bit green around the gills when they had landed. 

They rode back to the castle and he saw her to her rooms, entreating a serving girl to procure his poor daughter a soothing draught of some sort. 

He was just about to do the very same thing for himself when Vella, the Dothraki woman who looked after their two youngest, came rushing toward him down the hall, looking none too harassed. 

“ _Khal_ ,” she greeted breathlessly with a tiny bow. The Dothraki had never really come around to the Westerosi ways of courtly manners and titles and he never begrudged them in the least. ‘ _Kahl_ ’ was better than ‘Snow King’, at any rate. “It’s Elena,” she explained hastily, “she’s escaped into the dungeons again—“

Jon cursed under his breath. Was he to receive no moment of peace? 

“Lead the way, Vella,” he conceded, exasperated and defeated. 

Little Elena… his little witch, he liked to call her, which Daenerys hated. But, it was simply too apt a moniker to abandon. Besides, Elena reveled in it, grinning proudly whenever he referred to her as such. She’d been conceived in Essos, on a diplomatic mission to Volantis, and Jon often wondered if the girl hadn’t brought some of the queer magics of the east with her in the womb.

Vella lead him down into the dank and dusty dungeons, where the giant skulls of legends still lurked. It was Elena’s favorite place, and only he or Daenerys could ever coax her out. Seeing as though the girl seemed quite an adept escapist, they were called by her put-upon nurse at least once a week to handle it. 

“She’s back there, under the big one,” Vella informed him, nodding to the grinning skull of Balerion the Black Dread, his inky bones glittering in the guttering lights of the torches. 

Jon nodded in thanks and the woman scampered back up the stairs, none too fond of the claustrophobic bowels of the Red Keep. 

“Elena?” he ventured, just seeing her tiny form hunched over something or another under the mandible of the great beast. “Elena, could you come out for your papa?” 

“I’m not finished,” she declared. “Just a minute, Papa.” 

“Alright, sweetling,” he acquiesced, not really in the mood to fight her on it, as he might have done. Instead, he settled himself on the dusty floor, leaning his shoulders on the massive jaw of the skull. 

It was always strange, being down here. Neither he nor Daenerys were particularly fond of it. She resented it, this dark ossuary dedicated to their mighty ancestry, but also held no desire to restore the tradition of their ostentatious display, meant to intimidate enemies and subjects alike. He never cared for it here simply because it was dark and cold and, well, a bit creepy. 

“Okay, all finished,” Elena said after a few moments of silence. She crawled out of the head, her hands and knees simply filthy. She scooted up next to where he was seated and he wrapped an arm around her narrow frame. She was too thin by half, no matter how well she ate, all legs and arms and elbows. Her hair was paler than moonlight, her skin even more so, with large, lamp-like eyes that were as blue as dawn. Besides her Targaryen hair, she looked little like either of her parents. 

“What were you doing over there?” he asked, jostling her a bit. 

“Drawing a map,” she sighed, pushing her stringy hair from her face with dusty fingers. 

“A map?” he asked her. “Of what?” 

“Not _of what_ ,” she corrected grumpily, “a map to _where_.”

“Mm,” he hummed, as if in deep consideration of this. “A map to treasure, maybe?” 

“Sort of,” she answered with a sniff, falling silent. 

Jon nodded, leaning his head back against the wall of bone at his back. Elena was an exceptionally esoteric child— something that he could appreciate but often did not have the patience for. Daenerys liked to complain that it was ‘Rhaegar’s artistry’ in her, giving him a look of accusation as if _he_ were the only one to blame for that. 

Complaints aside, they knew that Elena was brilliant. Would be an exceptional artist someday. She was just a bit… odd. 

“Momma told me that I could find dragon eggs someday,” she offered abruptly, drawing a line through the dust on the floor. He should probably reprimand her for that, but she was already caked with the stuff. Seemed a little too late to do so at this juncture. 

He raised an eyebrow at her at that, genuinely surprised. “Did she, now?”

She nodded, continuing her crude tracings between her knees. “Said dragons are fierce mommas… hide their eggs where no one can find them.” 

“Except you?”

She turned her face up at him, grinning wolfishly, cheeks streaked with grime. “Except me.” 

He nudged her a bit with his shoulder. “Is that what the map is for?”

She nodded again, turning back to her idle lines in the dirt. “Saw it in a book.”

He knitted his brows together at that. “A book?”

“Mhmm,” she hummed happily. “Old book.”

“What book?” 

She shrugged her shoulders, continuing her work on the floor. Jon sighed, making a mental note to ask Sam what kind of books he was supplying his daughters with. He leaned over to admire her crafting. He had to admit, it was better than anything he could’ve conjured. “Is that a dire wolf?” 

She smiled at him, pleased that he had figured it out. “Do you ever miss your wolf, Papa?”

His heart twisted painfully in his chest and he gave her a grateful, watery smile. “Of course I do.” 

“But he’s still with you,” she assured, with all the confidence of a nine year old. She jabbed a finger into his chest, where the stamped sigil of the Stark dire wolf rested on his hauberk, just below the crowned dragon on his gorget. 

“Aye,” he answered, his eyes over-warm. He nudged her again. “You hungry, my little witch? ’S nearly supper time.”

She beamed at him at that, looking pleased as punch. “Sure, Papa, let’s go.” 

+++

Daenerys wasn’t exactly _late_ , but it was getting there, and he couldn’t help but pace and brood in front of the fire, attempt to distract himself with some dull letter writing that needed tending. 

Thankfully (or perhaps, not so much) he was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. 

It wasn’t the door that led to the main hall, the one flanked by Kingsguards; rather, the one to the right of the hearth, that lead to the room where their two youngest slept. 

“Papa?” came a plaintive voice from the other side. He rose from his chair and strode toward it swiftly. 

“Alysanne,” he greeted gently when he’d pulled it open. “What is it, my love?”

Her dark eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks shiny. She clutched her blanket tightly to her chest. “Had a bad dream.”

He knelt down, scooping her up without hesitation and closing the door softly behind him so as not to wake her sister. “There now,” he cooed, settling himself back in the chair before the fire. “I’m here, love.”

She sniffed against his chest, curling her little arms around his neck. He stroked the dark crown of her head, shushing and kissing her brow in comfort. 

Alysanne, or little Aly— their gentle dove and the one who was not supposed to be with them. 

That seemed a cruel summation, but Alysanne had been neither desired nor expected. Daenerys had thought herself beyond her childbearing years, and learning of her pregnancy had wracked him with a black and heavy guilt, knowing that such a burden may very well kill the love of his life. He remembered, bitterly now, that he had fallen to his knees before his wife, begging her to take the vial of herbs the master had given them. They had a family, no need to risk her own life for one more child. 

Daenerys had flatly refused. _”Every life you have given me has been a miracle.”_

It had been a miserable, ruinous pregnancy, and a worse birth. Jon had nearly ripped out every strand of hair from his head in worry, in fear. 

But Alysanne had proven a perfect child, even at the young age of five— quiet, sweet, caring, selfless even to a fault. Jon loved her fiercely. 

“Can you tell me about it, Aly?” he murmured into her hair. 

“It was about Momma,” she sniffed. 

He tried to still his heart at that, knowing that though he had been fretting about his wife just moments before, did not mean his youngest having a bad dream about her meant anything. 

“What happened?” 

She leaned away from him, looking down at her hands, fidgeting with her Dothraki blanket. “I dreamed she fell off her dragon.” 

Jon stoked her hair, shaking his head. “She’d never—“ he stopped short at that, because that wasn’t _exactly_ true. 

“She fell and there was a lot of fire… she fell through that, too.”

Jon wrinkled his brow at that. Him and Daenerys had not told Alysanne the whole story of the Long Night… only the vague details that would be enough to answer her more burning questions, but not enough to scare her. They certainly had not told her how Daenerys had brought down Viserion, her corrupted son. 

“Elena said Momma can’t burn… is that true, Papa?” 

Jon felt his hear clench, something strong and searing taking hold of him in that moment. “Aye, love, it is.” 

“So… what I saw wasn’t true? Momma… didn’t burn up—“ she couldn’t continue, her voice snatched up by the fearsome echo of whatever she had seen in her nightmare. 

“Shh…” he whispered, pulling her back against him. “Shh, my love, it’s okay. It was just a dream.” 

He stroked her back as her little shoulders shook, hiccuping into his neck, letting her fears flow out. 

“Your momma is magic, my love,” he murmured into her ear, “she is as much a dragon as Drogon. Fire cannot hurt her.” 

Alysanne leaned back from him again, cheeks blotchy, eyes swollen. “But she did fall, didn’t she?” she demanded. 

He inwardly noted to warn Elena about what she was telling her little sister in the morning. He nodded. “Aye, my love, she did.”

“But you saved her?” 

“Drogon broke her fall,” Jon clarified, pushing a hank of her hair away from her sticky cheeks. “But, aye, I saved her.” 

She sniffed again, swiped under her nose with her wrist. “Elena said that’s why she has that funny mark on her leg.” She pointed at his head. “Why your crown is all… swirly.” 

His throat closed up, memories long forgotten blazing true and bright in his mind again. _That_ was not something Elena should’ve known. That had to have been Visenya’s work. 

“Aye,” he answered, voice as crackly as the fire, “my crown was made from the pieces of my old sword… the sword that saved your momma. That is why I wear it… because nothing could be a higher honor to me than that.” 

Her eyes grew wide, all traces of fear or trepidation gone. “More than sending Cersei away, Papa? Or the bad man with the ice sword?” 

He nodded. “Much more.” 

His daughter stared at him, awe struck, and he cupped her cheek. “Now, are you ready for bed, little one?” 

She shook her head, throwing her arms around his neck and collapsing against his chest again. “Just a few more minutes, Papa,” she mumbled into his shirt. 

He settled further back into his chair, stretched out his tired legs. “Aye,” he sighed, “just a few more minutes.”

+++

“Jon…” came a soft voice. He cracked his eyes open, tired and content beyond reason. “Jon, my love.” 

Light bled through the dark, though it was dim, the fire having worn down to a dull glow within the hearth. Daenerys’ lovely face was floating before him, a small, impossibly fond smile on her lips. 

“By the gods,” he croaked, heart sagging with relief within his chest, “it’s about time you got home.” 

“Shh…” she gentled, settling a hand on his shoulder as he tried to lift himself up from his chair. 

He looked down at where her eyes had traveled, finally understanding what the warm, soft weight on his chest had been. Alysanne was boneless upon him, snoring quietly and perhaps drooling on his thin shirt. 

Just like her mother. 

“Don’t think you should wake her just yet,” she whispered, her grin loving and teasing all the same. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he whispered back, laying a hand on Aly’s head. He looked back up at his wife, so happy to see her he could burst. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” she murmured, pressing a firm kiss on his lips. “Do you need anything?” she asked as she pulled away. “Blanket? Water?”

He shook his head with a little laugh. “No, no… I suppose I’m just fine right here.”

She beamed, and he still couldn’t quite believe that he deserved the look she was giving him. She leaned forward and gave him another kiss. “I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you, too.” 

+++

_And this is a world of terrible hardship,_

_everywhere,_

_and I search for words_

_to set you at ease._

_But there, in the looking-glass,_

_a kite is soaring,_

_stilling my warring heart_

_and my trembling knees._

— “Esme” Joanna Newsom

**Author's Note:**

> thanks again to the Tarts and the Tumblrinas. i haven't been around so much, but it seems as though i am constantly in flux i guess, so thanks for sticking with me. 
> 
> also, happy early birthday to my lovely, wonderful, fierce friend ashleyfanfic who has pushed me through many a dark space. love you, dear, hope you like it and it brings a smile to your face. 
> 
> also, this is a record-breaking amount of fluff for me. i'm actually... kind of proud of myself lmao.
> 
> (the title is from, again, Joanna Newsom's song "Sadie". i should probably start sending her checks or something.)


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